


Punch

by LittleSpider



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Red Room, SHIELD, Violence, mission, thwump, triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:12:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly triggering mission for Natasha, Clint tries all he can to get her to let it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch

Clint and his bow were one.  
  
  
When the slender, curve of the handle was in his hand, he and the weapon were the same mind.  
Hell, it wouldn't be too much to suggest that it spoke to him, something always nudged his hand a little to the left, down a half inch. Who knew?  
Perhaps the bow was something else...perhaps to anyone else it was just a bow.  
His concentration never faltered when it was in his hand, when the arrow was mere inches from his cheek, the crook of his arm never shook, his bicep never cramped.  
It was him and the bow, the arrow, and the target.  
And everything else was white noise.  
All except the rhythmic pounding of Natasha hitting the punch bag beside him. The pound of sweaty bandages on taped up leather, occasional grunts of effort and the very occasional pause where she would drag her wrist across her forehead, flick the sweat away and carry on.  
It was late night, SHIELD's training area was deserted. Just the way they liked it.  
Come 23.00 he and Natasha would sidle into the training area. She would hang up a punch bag, he would set out a target and they would work on their skills together.  
To SHIELD's supervising officers, it was a prime example of how partners should be. Working out of hours to bond while training. To encourage out of hours, off-the-clock fraternisation.  
To Clint and Natasha, it was a chance to get away from everyone else and have some time together that wasn't monitored by the clocks, the SO's, the pass-card system, the cameras.  
Just them, the equipment, and the soundproof walls.  
Clint noted that today she was beating the bag particularly senseless and surmised with a grimace that if it had been the guy they failed to take down on last weeks mission she'd be working his face into the mats by now.  
She'd been tense for a while now.  
Last weeks mission had been a success according to the mission debrief. The threat had been eliminated but it had been a personal failure.  
A polish human trafficker had been running a teenage prostitution ring for the last eight months, they had tracked him through Europe, he had always been one step ahead and they had worked tirelessly, trading information with every scum-sucking parasite they could to find his whereabouts.  
Finally, they found the seedy hotel he'd set up his latest 'recruits' in and Clint would never forget the look on Natasha's face when she found him shaking a girl no older than 14 to get her to stop crying and give the customer what he paid for.  
She managed to get at least six good punches in before she was restrained by local law enforcement who got there around three minutes before SHIELD did and the man was escorted into SHIELD custody with a broken jaw, fractured eye socket and six missing teeth.  
She muttered at the de-brief that her only regret was not puncturing his eyeball.  
Six days on and she was still tense. Still tight. Still angry.  
Tonight she had clicked the remote angrily as she simmered over after watching five minutes of 'Pretty Woman' and called it 'Western Propaganda that everyone gets a happy ending even if they are a streetwalker.'  
It was then he suggested they get out of the apartment and work out.  
Working his shoulder a little, he looked to her.  
Sweat was clinging to her skin, her cheeks were flushed and glazed with perspiration, her black vest top clung to her with moisture and still she kept going.  
“Nat...”  
She did not stop, she was in the zone. This was bad...  
“Natasha.”  
Pound. Pound. Pound.  
“Natasha!”  
“What!?” she snapped and punched the bag hard one more time, staring at him incredulously.  
“...Stop. Just stop. You're gonna hurt yourself.”  
“Leave me to it, Clint.” she muttered and checked the bandages on her hands before steadying the bag.  
“You're gonna bring the ceiling in.”  
“So?” she retorted and punched the bag again.  
“...Natasha. Just...talk to me...” he responded.  
“We're busy.” she replied, steadying the bag again.  
Clint looked at the bow in his hand before putting it back on the table and looking to her.  
“I'm not.”  
She shook her head.  
“Nothing to discuss.”  
“...Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Natasha.” he began and put his hand on her shoulder.  
He knew it was a bad move, particularly when she was in this kind of mood.  
He knew it the second he felt the cold sweat on her skin and quite rightfully found himself flipped over her shoulder and on the mats on his back in seconds with her knees pinning him to the floor.  
Any other man might have lashed out back.  
Any other man might have questioned why such a kindness was rewarded with cruelty.  
Any other man might have quailed with the look that Natasha Romanova was giving him right now...  
But he knew she was already on the verge of losing it.  
“...Tasha.” he said quietly.  
And just like that her lip tensed, her face screwed up and she let out an anguished gasp before pushing herself off him.  
“God damn it...” she muttered, a crack in her voice.  
Clint shot up beside her and wrapped his arms around her now that it was safe, pushing her head into his shoulder and covering her shoulders with his arm, packing her tight into his frame.  
“Shah. Come on. It's good...its fine. No harm done.”  
Covering her face from a world she promised would never see her tears again, he let her have a few dry sobs into his shoulder while stroking her hair.  
He didn't need to ask where this came from. Or why.  
He knew the look on her face when she had seen the Polish bastard shake the 14 year old Romanian girl for refusing the 60 year old man his blow job.  
She didn't see that girl.  
She saw herself.  
She saw every other girl who had been brainwashed, victimized, forced into something she didn't want to do...  
That man was not Andrzej Szwarc. It was Ivan Petrovich.  
And every punch had at least 20 years of pain packed behind it.  
He didn't need to hear her sob that out.  
He knew it was going through her mind because it had gone through his twenty seconds later.  
She was sat in his lap, her sobs had transformed into exhausted breaths as she stopped resisting and started to rest against him.  
The slow, deliberate tangle of his fingers through her hair, his steady heartbeat, the promise of no intrusions finally enabled her to pull her head from under his chin where she had rested it.  
“...I'm sorry Clint.”  
He looked down at her and gave her a heartening smile.  
“Hey...No worries. My own fault for not dodging...”  
She gave a sad, red eyed smile back up at him and rested her head back on his chest.  
He continued to stroke her hair and pretended not to notice the fact her hand bandages were pink with blood.  
He'd deal with that later. Right now he was holding Nat.  
HIS Nat.  
Helping her glue herself back together again.


End file.
